


gymnophoria

by chateauofmyheart



Series: queen + rare words [5]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, Blood and Injury, Domestic Fluff, Drinking, Fist Fights, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, John is soft, M/M, Male Friendship, Sexual Harassment, Team as Family, brian is a tired mom, but he's doing his best, freddie's not out yet, i promise its not as heavy as it sounds, im sorry roger, set in the mid 70s but they all still live together, starting off great oh boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 13:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17427146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chateauofmyheart/pseuds/chateauofmyheart
Summary: gymnophoria - the sensation of someone mentally undressing you"A 'hey!' from behind made him turn back. The man lounged against the bar, eyes still on him. Next to him, another a man, taller and with a curly mullet, spoke up.'Yer really not gonna say nothin’? Pretty thing like you, probably used to everybody lookin’ at ya, huh?' he smiled and pushed purposefully forward. Roger fixed on a cheeky grin and took a step back, skin crawling under the wolfish eyes.'Oh, yeah.'"





	gymnophoria

**Author's Note:**

> hello lovelies! it's been a while, apologies. im,, not really sure what happened with this fic. my original idea was a bit different and a whole lot shorter, but im not mad about it. hope you like it?
> 
> sorry in advance for the all creepy guys hitting on roger. he doesn't deserve what happens to him in this fic, i know

“Hey there, pretty boy!”

Roger didn’t spare a glance towards the drunken voice in the crowd as he exited the stage. Sweat ran down his chest and his head felt light, the lack of oxygen making the lights blinding and the crowd sound like an ocean, muffled and distant. He was hyper aware of his bare upper half; his jeans too tight on his thighs and starting to chafe. The adrenaline of the show roared through his veins like a lion, hungry and on edge. There were eyes all over him.

The dark backstage hallway was bliss. Brian’s wide shoulders in front of him eclipsed the approaching changing room lights. Roger felt his muscles ache, and wanted nothing more than a drink.

(He hated the in between moments, the spaces between gig and bar, talking and fucking, sleep and wakefulness. As he pulled the stiff fabric off his legs on the cold changing room floor he wished he was already drunk, loud voices all around, a girl on his arm. The eyes all on him appraising and lustful, ready to have him.)

Maybe he really was tired, Roger thought to himself, as a wave of irritation swept through him. Brian was standing too close to him, towering over him as he tugged at the sleeves of his boring button down. Roger yanked up the velvet trousers and stood up, scowling.

Freddie’s voice, raspy and grating, filled the room. Roger wanted to hit him. John was watching him with that strange, distinctive stare of his. Roger didn’t know how to describe it. It was paradoxical; knowing and yet searching, soft and deeply cutting, young and so mature all at once. Usually it was entrancing, but now it was just annoying. He was always watching, always staring, and Roger loved attention but if he hadn’t known better he’d say John was acting like a schoolgirl in love.

But then he smiled, squinty and almost apologetic, and Roger felt guilty for finding him annoying. 

Really, he just needed a drink. 

 

Roger lifted his beer with a loud cheer, a couple drops spilling onto his bare chest. A nameless girl with bright lipstick and a long skirt was clinging to his arm. Her grip tugged his shirt down until it was slipping off his shoulder, which earned him some appreciative glances. Roger was shining under bright lights and dark eyes, glowing with drunken bliss and sweat. This was true happiness, he decided.

Freddie was shouting something joyfully to his left, but Roger couldn’t hear him through the whirlpool of voices. Everything blurred slightly, smudged like eyeliner. A crash split the air.

The weight of the girl on his arm disappeared as she turned to check out the spectacle. Roger drained his drink carelessly and wandered off to the bar to get another.

The bartender’s face was dark, lights not quite reaching him behind the bar. He silently produced whatever Roger ordered- he’d barely read the options, just picked the first thing that looked interesting- before retreating back and out of Roger’s mind.

He turned with his new drink, which was a suspiciously bright orange in the light, and came face to face with a shirtless man holding an empty glass. The man’s eyes raked over his body slowly, deliberately, hovering at his bare waist before fixing on his face. Roger knew that look, had seen it a hundred times before, but to have it so _flagrantly_ offered from a man was- His stomach turned even as a small part of him purred. He was uncomfortably reminded of his open shirt, slipping off his left shoulder.

He brushed past the man without a word and went to rejoin Freddie in the crowd. A “hey!” from behind made him turn back. The man lounged against the bar, eyes still on him. Next to him, another a man, taller and with a curly mullet, spoke up.

“Yer really not gonna say nothin’? Pretty thing like you, probably used to everybody lookin’ at ya, huh?” he smiled and pushed purposefully forward. Roger fixed on a cheeky grin and took a step back, skin crawling under the wolfish eyes.

“Oh, yeah.”

The man’s smile widened. “Yer aware of how many wanna bend you over the bar and have their wicked way with ya? And you- yer here leadin’ ‘em on like a little whore?” Through the alcohol haze, Roger’s brain went haywire with danger signals. The man was a bit too close, showing a few too many teeth. Roger had seen eyes like his a thousand times on a thousand different people. 

“Can’t help what people want” his voice was a lot steadier than he felt. The man’s smile started to look more like bared teeth.

“And you give ‘em what they what, ay? You wanna- wanna give me what I want, then?”

“Wha-” he tripped over his tongue. Nausea bubbled magma hot in his gut. The man was right in front of him. Roger could smell what he knew to be straight whiskey on the man’s breath.

“You know exactly what yer doin’ with that golden hair and those big blue eyes, lookin’ like some innocent fairytale princess. Shapely legs too, saw ya on stage. Bet you’d be a pretty sight on yer knees.” 

Roger felt the magma burn the back of his throat. An ugly mixture of anger and shame rose up. He turned away, now intent on making his way into the crowd and disappearing. But when a hand grabbed his bare shoulder and “Where do you think yer goin’, Princess?” made it to his ears, he saw red.

 

(Seventeen-year-old Roger went to a pub with friends. It was cheap and dirty, water stains on the ceiling and beer stains on the floor. No one had asked for ID, and that should’ve tipped him off, but he was young and bored and stupid, so he went and got drunk at some small disgusting bar on a Friday night with his mates. No one knew him and that was the point.

It was harmless, really.

He got up to take a piss and a bearded man crowed “Aye, you, blondie! Let me see your tits!” from a bar stool, friends snickering beside him like background characters in the movies. They had chicken eyes; unintelligent and vicious. Then there were hands, large and heavy, on right above his hips. Roger whipped around.

“Oi! Watch it, I’m not a girl” he grit out, stepping away. Everything felt just slightly off; he hadn’t much experience being drunk yet, and it showed. The stranger barked an incredulous laugh and swayed slightly, not sober himself.

“There’s no fucking way yer a bloke, love” he leered. Roger bared his teeth.

“Yes I am, you bastard.”

The man was unfazed by the insult. “No, you’re not! Not with that face.” 

It continued along this vein for a minute, maybe more. Nobody paid them much mind; it was one of those pubs, it seemed. Roger was just contemplating walking off when the man moved forward, fisting his shirt.

“Alright, let’s see ‘em!””

His breath stank. Roger felt a sudden spike of real fear. He could hold his own in a fight, but the stranger was a whole lot bigger. He didn’t stand a chance.

Those large hands grabbed his collar and pulled. The fabric tore easily, ripping all the way down. The man shoved him back by his shoulders and Roger stumbled back into the hard concrete wall. He felt eyes run like oil over his bare torso.

It was humiliating. Those eyes were tearing the rest of his clothing off, imagining things he didn’t fully understand, violating him. 

“Well, looks like the bitch was telling the truth after all!” the man announced. His yellow teeth were pulled into a sleazy grin. His friends guffawed and booed behind him. Roger desperately wanted to cover his chest and hide from those ugly, bloodshot chicken eyes, but he then would’ve looked like the child he was. They were sharks circling him. He was blood in the water.

Roger Taylor did not cry that night, no matter how much it burned.)

 

* * *

Roger tilted his head back, before remembering the blood would only run down to his stomach and come up in the morning. Blood dripped over his lips as he stared down at the street. There was a line of cigarette butts in the gutter crawling like ants to the puddle he was forming. 

He was far enough from the nearest streetlamp that the blood was black against the gray cement. He shifted his shoes as it grew dangerously larger. His face was warm where the blood ran down to his chin.

His knuckles ached like the satisfaction of a post-sex stretch. His nose, however, was less satisfying, throbbing in time with his heartbeat. It wasn’t broken, thank god, but he’d be breathing through his mouth for a while. His head ached like a future hangover.

Cold air brushed his chest and pebbled his nipples. He didn’t bother to attempt the buttons, instead wrapping his shirt tight over his stomach like a sheet. Roger probably looked a sight; bruised cheekbone, bloody nose, and split knuckles in nothing but an open short-sleeve and stained velvet trousers, sat alone on the curb behind a lively bar. The wind picked up and ruffled his hair gently. He shivered. 

“You okay?” He whipped his head around and immediately regretted it as his headache drove a spike through his brain. John stood quietly, an angelic silhouette against the blinding bar light.

“Fuck- yeah, just fab.” John’s face was indecipherable in the dark, but his silence spoke volumes. Roger tried to smile but it probably came out all wrong. 

John came and sat next to him, lanky limbs pulled tight like he was afraid of taking up too much space and fluffy hair looking impossibly soft in the distant bar light. Roger was hit with the sudden overwhelming urge to bury his hands in it. He resisted, but only because his arms were aching.

He was struck by one of those paradoxical looks again. John’s irises caught the light and revealed the grayish green of them. He wasn’t squinting now. Roger thought he looked beautiful.

(And see, here’s the thing; objectively, John wasn’t the most beautiful man he’d ever seen. Not even top five. But there was something so unique about the way he stared, and his magnetic warmth that so many overlooked. As a person, John was stunning.)

Roger didn’t realize his mouth had dropped open until the taste of blood filled his senses. He jerked back, spitting the blood out in front of him. John laughed softly as he made a face.

“I’ll go get Freddie and Brian and we can go home.”

Roger nodded his assent. John started to get up and paused, holding an awkward crouch. Roger looked up to him, to ask what he was doing, and realized he’d grabbed John’s jacket. The black material was soft between his fingertips. John’s mouth made a little ‘o’ and Roger had one moment to think how much he’d like to kiss it before it stretched into a familiar smile. 

Warm arms wrapped around his shoulders and soft hair tickled his face. Roger blinked, frozen, before melting into the embrace. John’s quiet breathing above him was all he could hear. Roger pulled him closer, arms looping around his neck. He saw the opportunity and took it, burying his hands in the thick waves of hair. It was even softer than it looked, and silky in an unexpected way. He hummed a little.

And pulled back. “Shit! I’m sorry, your jacket-” He checked John’s jacket furiously for blood, which was still running sluggishly from his nose. It hadn’t ended up on his jacket, though, but that heavenly hair. Roger cursed again and John rubbed the wet strands between his fingers, now shining red. And maybe there was something attractive about the casual way he had blood smeared on his fingers that Roger wasn’t going to examine now. 

John shrugged off Roger’s apologies politely, standing up. Guilt creeping in, Roger stood up as well and watched as John headed back in, now both to wash his hair and collect their mates. Alone again on the curb, he wiped the drying blood from his face onto his wrist. The bitter, metallic taste of blood lingered in his mouth. Cold came creeping back in where John’s body had been. His face throbbed angrily. He could still remember the man’s face crumpling under his fist, the shocked look that quickly grew into rage, and the sting of the returning punch. 

He was banned from this bar now, he supposed. Brian would be mad, but he didn’t particularly care.

 

* * *

“Ow- fuck! Watch it, Fred!” he yelped as Freddie wiped his cheek, to which he received only an eye roll and another stinging press of the washcloth. Brian watched from the doorway, surveying the mess the cramped bathroom was becoming with a disgusted curl of his lip. Bloody tissues littered the floor, joined by Roger’s discarded shirt and a roll of bandages that had halfway unraveled from the sink cabinet to where it had ended up at the foot of the bathtub when Freddie had accidentally elbowed Roger and Roger had not-so-accidentally bumped his hip back, sending them both sprawling to the floor.

John was in the kitchen making tea, judging from the whistle of the kettle and his announcement when they’d arrived home. He seemed- not bothered so much as uncertain as to how to help- and had slipped away after unlocking the door for their stumbling procession.

“Don’t be a such a little bitch, dear. I’m helping you. Be grateful.”

Brian snorted and Roger glared at him. Brian raised his eyebrows in return, unfazed. His shirt was unbuttoned down to the navel and Roger spied a hickey or two, shying away behind his curls. He was probably a little disappointed that he hadn’t gone home with whoever had left those marks, Roger reasoned. The petty part of him was grinning smugly. If he couldn’t have a good night, why should Brian?

“You did bring this on yourself, you know” Brian pointed out. Roger stuck his tongue out.

The washcloth against his nose made him hiss and edge away. It burned like fire, bright and lingering. Freddie clicked his tongue and scooched closer along the rim of the tub, leaning in to rub at the forming bruises. Roger could see the remnants of eyeliner smudged slightly at the corners of those devilish eyes. Freddie pushed a bit too rough against the bridge of his nose and he yelped again.

“God, I want a drink!” Roger whined.

“You were having one, before you got into a fight and got yourself thrown out” Freddie said loftily, as if he’d never been thrown out of a bar before, for fighting and for other things.

“We were all having one, actually. And now we’re all here, at home.” Brian added, the ‘because of you’ unsaid but not unheard. Roger gave into pettiness and flipped him off.

“Brian’s just upset he had to leave his date behind, but he has a point. I’m not sure you’ve got any right to complain.” John popped up behind Brian in the doorway, slipping in and standing in the tiny space between the sink counter and the toilet. Steam from his mug immediately began to fog the mirrors. Brian scowled and muttered something, which John ignored.

“Really! E tu, Deaky?” Roger dramatically leaned back, flailing in panic as he nearly tumbled into the small tub. The others burst into laughter; Freddie throwing his head back, Brian heaving his shoulders, and John bending forward in a fit of giggles. “Fine, I see how it is. I have no friends here.”

“Rog, love, stop being an idiot and _hold still_.” The washcloth attacked his face once more and Roger spluttered. He really didn’t see how there was anything left to rub at, but Freddie, ever the perfectionist, apparently did, because he ran the cloth under both of Roger’s eyes and then over them. Just gentle enough that it didn’t hurt, but not gentle enough to stop the bright sparks of light from appearing under Roger’s eyelids.

John took an audible sip and made a comment about something or the other. Brian giggled, still a little drunk, and said something back. A little ‘ow, fuck, Fred’ told Roger that Freddie had somehow managed to kick Brian from the other side of the room. Granted, it was a tiny room and Freddie had rather long legs, as he so loved to display at any opportunity. John laughed, presumably at Brian. 

A sudden removal of the cloth from his face had Roger blinded, only Freddie’s faint silhouette visible a foot from his face. Honestly, Roger didn’t know what he’d do without him. Any of them, really. 

“So I guess we’re banned from another bar, huh?” Brian sighed forlornly, folding his legs into a pretzel as he sat against the doorway. Roger looked up briefly, confused, before the washcloth was back.

“What? I’m the only one who got banned” he said into the darkness.

“If you can’t go, there’s really no point in any of us going! We’re a package. We would never leave you behind, darling.” Freddie said, sweet yet matter of fact, as if what he was saying was obvious and not one of the nicest gestures Roger had ever been offered from by any of his friends before. He pulled the washcloth down and folded it carefully on the rim, then reached up and smoothed Roger’s hair, a nice feeling even as his damp hands caught slightly on the dry strands. Roger leaned into the weight of it, relaxing and breathing out slowly. 

Peaceful silence swallowed them up, making the bathroom feel somehow less cramped and cozier at the same time. Roger basked in it. He hated the in between moments, but this was an exception. Maybe it wasn’t an in between moment at all. 

For a bit, all was silent except for John sipping his tea. Roger noted blood still lingering under his tongue, bitter tasting, and tried unsuccessfully to swallow it down.

“Did you make any for the rest of us?” Roger muttered into Freddie’s chest, where he’d fallen to in a state of sleepy bliss. Having his hair petted was really nice.

John gave his quiet little giggle, the warm sounded filling Roger’s chest. “There’s enough hot water for everyone.”

“If we ever leave this bathroom” Brian grumbled, though he was also smiling fondly.

 

The tea was just a touch on the cool side, them having stayed in the bathroom too long, and it mixed with the iron flavor in his mouth terribly, but it was pleasing as only a good cup of tea can be. Everyone murmured their thanks to John, who responded with his cute smile and sipped the last of his much warmer tea.

Roger wandered over to the sofa, exhaustion making his bones lead-heavy and the ratty pillows feather-soft. Or Deaky’s hair-soft, his dumb brain suggested, which had him snorting to himself as he wiggled into a comfortable position. Freddie joined him on one side, pulling Brian down and leaning into his bony chest, an interesting imitation of the cats he loved to fawn over. John was on the other side, thighs pressed against Roger’s, who shifted closer without even thinking about it.

Roger floated in the comfort of familiarity, pain fading to the background as he appreciated the solidarity of his friends. Times like this, he knew, no matter how well Queen did on the charts, they would always be successful in his eyes because they had each other. They loved each other, and what they were doing, and they were a family. He’d give up all the fame and fortune in the world to have them, although fame and fortune would be great too.

He felt eyes on him, and looked over to see John watching him again. Roger wished he could understand what exactly it meant.

Freddie yawned, catching his attention. He looked over to find Brian, presumably asleep, arm over Freddie’s shoulder and head dropped forward so his hair shielded his face; and Freddie well on his way, wrapped around Brian’s torso and head tucked under his chin. Roger’s chest swelled.

“I love them.” 

John ‘hmm’ed and snuggled closer. Roger smiled and shifted towards him in return. 

“I love you too, Deaky” he whispered. Saying it shouldn’t have made him so nervous, because John was his family and it wasn’t anything new, but considering he’d thought about kissing him earlier maybe he’d made things weird, if only for himself.

A beat of silence, and Roger twisted to look back. John was smiling, bright and cute and yet slightly sad in a way it sometimes was, with those eyes.

“And I love you.”

 

* * *

“Rog? Roger? Earth to drums?” 

Roger blinked and found Brian standing right in front of his kit, staring at him with expectant eyebrows raised. The others watched over his shoulders from their respective places.

“What?” he asked, self-conscious. His face still ached, nose stinging as he wrinkled it. 

“You were late, _again_. Usually you’re rushing through it but today you’re falling behind.”

“Hey!” Roger snaps, “I do not. You’re always going too slow!”

“Ladies, not today please!” Freddie called. Brian ignored him and stepped forward.

“You’ve been off all day! I understand your face might still hurt but usually something like that doesn’t stop you.” Brian squinted at Roger the way close friends do when they notice something. “What’s wrong?”

Roger chewed his lip. A distantly familiar and uncomfortable frustration rested in the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t gone out or hooked up with anyone in a couple of days. It was making his head all fucked up; he kept thinking of that moment with John behind the bar, his impossibly angelic face and soft halo of glowing hair. The thought of kissing him hovered in the back of Roger’s mind like a storm cloud. It was jarring, and sent that twisted feeling of shame through him everytime he thought of it. A feeling that too well resembled the shameangerguiltfear of the encounter with the man at the bar. 

There was no chance he was going to fumble through some awkward explanation of his possible gay crisis with John watching him like a curious puppy from his amp. The thought had his stomach turning.

“Think I’m coming down with something. Wasn’t feeling too well after breakfast” he lied, staring down at his drumsticks, which were faintly smudged with blood from his split knuckles reopening during practice. He’d forgotten to replace the bandages. Brian narrowed his eyes and looked him over. Roger did his best not to look guilty.

“Alright, well say something next time. We’re not going to throw you under the bloody bus for catching a cold.” Brian finally said, still watching him with something that might’ve been suspicion. Roger let out a relieved sigh and brushed his hair back from his face, wincing at the sting along his fingers, and then again at the way his face moved. Honestly, he just wanted to get a drink and a girl and forget his problems.

Brian rejoined the others, who had set their equipment aside. Freddie frowned at him. “Should we continue practicing?” Brian shrugged and turned back to Roger.

“You up for more practice, or are you going to keep zoning out?” There was an accusation in there that Roger chose to ignore. He weighed his options.

“I can focus.” A small, dumb potential crush wasn’t going to get in the way of Queen’s success. At Brian’s doubtful look, he offered a cheerful grin, ignoring the twist in his gut. “Promise!”

 

(Roger remembered meeting Brian. A small room with a basic drum kit set up and two lanky college boys stood like executioners in front of him. Brian, with his shaggy, futilely straightened hair, had looked at him, up and down and up again, before unfolding his arms and asking “So, what’s your name?”

Roger had seen Tim doing the same thing, eyeing him, but there something darker in his gaze missing in Brian’s. Roger had pretended not to notice.

“Roger Taylor. Tell me then, can you play the drums?” Tim had asked once he introduced himself. Roger had scoffed.

“Of course. Why’d you think I’m here?”

Brian had stepped forward then, a shine in his face that wasn’t there before. “Anyone can hit the drums. What we want is someone who can play.”

Roger had grinned in the face of Brian’s intensity. “Well here I am.”)

 

* * *

The crowd cheered its ocean sound as Roger jumped up from behind the drums and threw up his arms. He felt like he was on top of the world, energy burning through his body and tangible in the air. He could taste adrenaline like a sweet cocktail on his tongue, a sharp flavor that lingered like blood. It had been a fantastic show; the crowd was responsive, the pyrotechnics had gone off perfectly timed, and no one had missed a beat.

Eyes were all over him and he lived for it. His cropped vest exposed his entire stomach and his arms up to the shoulder. He could feel people tracing the outline of him from the dark; blonde hair glowing under the too-bright stage lights, arm muscles defined in the high contrast, slim waist emphasized by the vest cut. No one could see the greenish yellow of almost healed bruises painted on his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. 

Freddie was a whirlwind, even off the stage. Brian looked pleased in that quiet way of his, waving to the crowd as he ran off and smiling at the backstage crew. John was bouncing, channeling the leftover excitement with various little dance movements. Roger couldn’t swallow his grin.

They were dressed and back out in record time, lost in a sea of serotonin and endorphins. Roger threw back a shot offered to him and danced with an enthusiastic girl, knowing he looked ridiculous and unable to find it in him to care.

“What a pretty bird.”

The comment caught his attention as he grabbed more drinks from the bar. A man sitting with a large beer had an eye on him. 

“Not a girl” he replied easily, picking up the drinks and throwing a quick ‘ta’ to the bartender, who nodded back.

“Why’d you look like one, then?” 

Roger let the comment slide off and left without a response. His mood was too good to be bothered by some random bloke making irritating comments.

 

It was, unfortunately, too good to last.

He’d made his way to the edge of the floor, stitch in his side and head swimming. He’d never really been a dancer, that was John’s specialty. The lights were dimmer and the air cooler in the corner, so he naturally gravitated towards it.

A man looking suspiciously like the one at the bar stood nearby, talking to a group of similar looking men. Roger ignored them. They didn’t ignore him.

Upon spotting him, the man probably from the bar announced something to his friends that got lost on the way to Roger’s ears. They approached him like a specimen in a zoo.

“Lookin’ a little tired there, birdy. Need a hand getting home?” the lead man asked. Roger rolled his eyes where he knew they couldn’t see it.

“I’ll be getting by fine on my own, thanks” he replied politely. The man leaned forward into his space, and Roger realized with a sinking feeling that he had trapped himself in the corner. The group surrounded him, blocking his view to the rest of the bar. A sickening, familiar glint shone in the man’s eye.

“Maybe getting by, but what about getting off?” Snickers sounded from the group, who were little more than ominous shadows with the harsh back lighting. Faceless, laughing shadows. Suggestions, disgusting, humiliating ones Roger didn’t want to imagine were thrown around. The lead man offered a few, as if he were suggesting what to have for breakfast and not a crude, graphic description of what he’d like to do to Roger with a little privacy.

“Like I said, sod off” Roger growled, no longer playing nice as his defenses rose. He tried to step around the men, but they stopped him. The laughter only grew.

“Someone should teach the lady some manners!” someone shouted. Roger’s fists balled. Agreements rose from the shadows. He could only imagine them leering at him mockingly, unable to see any features beyond disorienting, shifting glimmers from the dance floor lights. They were tearing his clothes off in their minds and he could feel it.

“Now, I’m sure we can all sort this out. Just a simple misunderstanding” the lead man placated, voice saccharine sweet. “Just give us an apology and no harm done.”

Roger didn’t like where this was going. ‘Apology’, his arse. They had cornered him, and the man had made his intentions clear. 

“You know how to properly apologize, don’t you?” When Roger didn’t reply and only bared his teeth instead, the man continued. “Just get down on your knees like the like doll you are and open those pouty pink lips.”

Roger lunged at him.

The next part was a blur. Roger remembered his fists colliding with bone and skin, unintelligible shouts and a “What the fuck is going on here” from a voice he recognized but couldn’t place, the searing burn in his scalp of his hair being yanked, a heavy blow to his gut, hardwood floor against his elbows and knees and the back of his head.

Then he was being pulled back and up and dragged into shocking cold air.

Another bar he was banned from. Fantastic.

 

Brian had apparently saved him, because he was the one supporting Roger as they stumbled into a cab. His hands dug into Roger’s pockets, which sent a spike of detached panic through him at the feeling of large hands at his waist. Then Brian disappeared. Roger sat propped against the window, staring dizzily at the back of the cabby’s head.

Brian waved a bony hand in front of his face. Roger blinked and watched as it multiplied. When had Brian gotten back in the cab?

Then they were home, the flat door recognizable as he slumped against it. Brian grabbed him before opening it and shepherded him to their cramped bathroom. Roger went blurry as Brian wiped him down with a washcloth, remembering a similar situation not too long ago. But wasn’t Brian supposed to be sitting by the door? And Freddie- 

His head throbbed, his whole body throbbed, right down his toes. A vague memory of the sensation of them being stepped on surfaced. 

He thought he might’ve passed out on the floor at some point, shaken awake by a worried Brian whose hair looked more and more like bushy tree. Roger may or may not have told him that. Very, very distantly, does he remember the others crowding into the small space, voices too loud for his poor brain to handle. Unconsciousness was blissfully empty.

 

* * *

The toast was crunchy between his teeth, just the wrong side of dry. Roger swallowed hard, nearly choking and taking a hasty chug of tea. Next to him, John shifted as if wanting to help but unsure how. Brian watched him from across the table, face a mild blend of disturbed and concerned. Freddie sat beside him, ominously silent.

“How’s the head?” Brian ventured. Roger shrugged and eyed his toast. He’d be hard-pressed to stomach any more of it. If he were being honest, his head had been worse. It hurt, yes, but nothing worse than a normal hangover. The rest of his body was a different story.

“Don’t think I’m concussed, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Brian looked unconvinced. “You didn’t see yourself last night, Rog. You were really out of it.”

Roger shrugged again and contemplated his empty tea mug. He wanted more tea, but he didn’t want to get up, and he knew if he asked John he’d help but he didn’t particularly feel like saying anything either. 

“Freddie and I got the equipment. Brian gave me the keys to your van. Nothing’s happened to her, promise” John said. Roger mustered as much gratefulness into his face as possible and smiled tiredly at him.

“So what happened?” Freddie finally broke his tense silence. He sounded worried, but there was an undercurrent of anger that belied his irritation from the night before. The bruises along Roger’s torso and lower ribs ached almost as if in sympathy.

“I- ah, I-.” Roger had no idea what to say. “There was this man, and- well, it was a group of them, and-” Roger stopped, gut clenching as he recalled the growing dread he’d felt, surrounded by those empty, mocking shadows.

“He, uh, made some comments at me, and- offered to take me home” he finished lamely, realizing how stupid it sounded once he’d said it.

“So he was flirting with you, and… you hit him?” Freddie asked, something uncharacteristic that Roger would almost call fear in his eyes.

“No- not because of…” he trailed off, swallowing hard as he tried to think of a way to explain that cornered fear. 

“He wasn’t flirting, Fred, he was- saying all sorts of things. It was disgusting, you should’ve heard him.” To his surprise, Brian spoke up. Didn’t know you’d heard him, Roger thought.

“You mean like _sexual harassment_?” Now Freddie sounded aghast, already on his way to righteous fury. The knot in Roger’s chest loosened. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him, especially John’s. He kept his head down.

“I mean- yeah. I don’t- yeah. It was.” That was less coherent than Roger would’ve liked. Maybe he was concussed after all.

Freddie jumped up and threw himself forward onto the table, arms coming around and hugging Roger by the neck. Every muscle in his body screamed in pain as the bruises on his ribs pressed into the wood edge. Roger must’ve made a noise because Freddie jerked back, eyes wide, and situated himself on the table; then leaned in, lips pursed in concern. 

Behind him, Brian had risen and come around the table like a civilized person so he was stood on the opposite side of John, hovering like a concerned tree.

“What’s hurting? Is it your ribs? They looked ghastly last night, they can’t have healed so quickly!” Freddie tugged at the hem of Roger’s shirt, who resignedly allowed him to pull it over his head. Under the thin curtain of fabric, he heard a gasp and a sharp breath. That bad, huh?

Once the shirt was off, he looked down and winced. It really was that bad.

“Ow!” he yelped, affronted, as Brian cautiously poked a particularly large bruise next to his hip. Brian shot him an apologetic look and went back to surveying the damage.

“Darling, I absolutely must insist on bandaging this! You look like a watercolor palette threw up on you” Freddie proclaimed, and without further ado, dragged him off to the bathroom. Roger met John’s eyes with one last helpless look before the door clicked shut.

 

“Ouch! Shit, Freddie, it’s not a bloody corset” Roger wheezed as Freddie yanked the bandages tight. 

“Just being secure, lovie” Freddie replied easily, like he wasn’t python-crushing the air out of Roger’s body. 

He stepped back to admire his handiwork, though not far, because there were a limited number of feet between the bathtub rim and the door. Roger thought he looked like a pretentious gallery owner admiring a piece of modern “art”. All that was missing were some dumb glasses.

“If anything like this happens again, I want you to come find me, alright?” Freddie said, suddenly serious. Roger’s chest tightened, and he nodded after a second. He didn’t want to pull Freddie, or any of the others, into his messes, but Freddie looked one moment away from quoting a movie protagonist monologue and Roger liked it better when he was smiling.

“And-” Freddie cut himself off and shook his head. His smooth hair swayed back and forth like dark curtains.

“What?” Roger prompted, brow furrowing as the hair kept swaying.

“Ah, it’s nothing.” Freddie dismissed with a careless flutter of his hands. Roger wasn’t having it.

“No, I promised I’d come to you if I had problems. You owe me the same; it’s only fair.”

There was a heavy, reluctant sigh. “I was only worried- well, no, not worried, just- earlier, I thought you might’ve gotten upset because it was- a man, who was... “ Freddie trailed off, but Roger understood.

“No! It wasn’t that.” Freddie looked relieved, strangely so. Roger wanted to examine that look closer, but then his head throbbed and the train of thought derailed. Freddie wasn’t worried anymore, and that was the important part.

Feeling brave, he continued. “I’m not homophobic or anything like that. I couldn’t be, because-” Roger hesitated slightly and Freddie’s eyes snapped to his. “‘Cause I might have a crush on a bloke.”

Freddie gasped so sharply Roger had to wonder for his lungs. It sounded painful.

“Really?! Who is it? Is it Brian?” he asked excitedly, face lit up like a Christmas tree. Roger pulled a face.

“Brian?” he parroted in exaggerated disgust.

“Is it Deaky then?”

Roger bit his lip.

“It _is_ Deaky!”

Roger shushed him, thinking of their mates in the kitchen. “Not so loud!” he hissed, watching the door nervously. Freddie ignored him.

“Oh this is lovely. Absolutely wonderful! I’ll have to devise a clever plan to get the two of you together.” Freddie hummed and struck a thoughtful pose. 

Roger’s heart stopped. 

“Fred, no. Listen; no. No way. Deaky’s straight and I don’t- I’m not even sure I really want that, y’know? I’m good with women,” he ignored Freddie’s derisive snort, “and I’m not sure I’m attracted to him in the same way; I mean, yes, he’s really cute and his smile is like sunshine and his eyes are mesmerising and I’ve thought about kissing him a lot, but-” Roger realized he was rambling. He felt his face heat up. Freddie’s face spoke volumes.

“Okay, maybe I do like him” he acquiesced. Freddie looked ready to start shouting, but with a pleading look from Roger, managed to contain himself.

“I acknowledge and accept you want to be careful about this, however! I will be… encouraging some bonding time between you and our lovely little bass player in the future.”

Roger bit his lip, anxiety rearing its ugly head and carving a home in his gut. He gave Freddie a weak smile. Freddie returned it brightly, stood up, and packed away the first aid kit.

“I’m finishing breakfast. You coming, dear?”

Roger looked down to the rim of the tub where his knuckles matched the white porcelain in their grip. It felt like something had changed somewhere, and he wasn’t sure whether it was good or not. Things were no longer as simple as before and as childish as it sounded, Roger preferred things simple.

His resplit knuckles ached as he flexed his hand. 

“Yeah, coming.”

 

* * *

In the end, it was a simple. 

It was one of those in between moments, changing after a show. Energy pulsed through his head and he was still half-drunk from what he’d had before they’d gone on. He tugged a leather jacket over a barely-buttoned print shirt with sore arms and looked up to find John watching him. Watching him, and then offering a quick, blinding smile, and Roger was struck by the unshakeable realization that he’d rather sit in this mildly uninviting changing room and talk to John than go out and get drunk with a group of hungry eyes.

(This was new, he noted. He’d never not wanted to have a night on the town before. John really was something special.)

He stood up and bumped Freddie, who didn’t fully notice, but they made eye contact and Roger remembered their conversation in the bathroom weeks ago. This was an opportunity. Even if John was never going to fall in love with him, they were still family and Roger wanted to spend time with him.

“Hey, John! I actually want to go somewhere else tonight, what’d you say?” He asked casually, voice low enough as to not attract attention. Freddie’s glance was heavy on the back of his neck.

John tilted his head. “Just us?” Roger ignored the pang in his stomach and shrugged, smiling.

“Yeah, I mean; why not?” 

John gave him a look he wasn’t sure how to interpret and straightened up. “I’ll let Brian know.”

Simultaneous thrills of excitement and jealousy ran through him. Despite his bitter thought of ‘What’s Brian got to do with anything?’ Roger had to bite his lip to stop from grinning giddily. John spoke to Brian, too quiet to hear, and then they both left towards the stage. 

“Brian’s driving again? You good with that?” Freddie’s amused voice spoke from by his elbow. Roger rolled his eyes as Freddie giggled. 

He’d once gone on a semi-drunken rant about the importance and sentimental value of his van to Brian and Freddie after Brian had nearly rammed it into a telephone pole- though Brian insisted it really wouldn’t have been that bad- and then later gotten into a fight with them about its importance to the band, resulting in a set of broken plates and the silent treatment from Freddie that lasted nearly a week. Since then, Brian and Freddie had found it absolutely hilarious to remind him of at every possible opportunity. They’d told John about it within the first few days of his joining the band, much to Roger’s chagrin.

“Fuck off” he grumbled good-naturedly. Freddie nudged him with a mischievous little smile. 

“So you and John, going off alone? Have fun, dear.” Roger flushed and shook his head, but Freddie continued. “Don’t forget lube, it’s very important.”

“ _Shut_ -!” Roger shoved his arms into Freddie’s chest, embarrassed and a little anxious, who burst into loud laughter. Roger could feel his face warming further. 

“That’s not what’s happening and you know it!” he hissed, voice low. Freddie waggled his eyebrows, laughter lingering in his voice.

“You never know.”

Roger rubbed his chest, trying in vain to calm down and cool his heated face. John reappeared in the doorway. Roger saw him eye Freddie’s smug face with innocent confusion and wanted to scream.

 

He was about a block out of the bar, John in step with him looking unfairly attractive in a dark jacket and faint leftover makeup, when he realized he actually had no idea where he was going to go. Roger stopped at the end of the pavement, staring at the green walk signal and internally panicking. Fuck. 

John eyed him, slipping his hands into his pockets. “You don’t actually know where you’re going, do you?” Roger whipped his head around.

How on earth did John do that? He’d done it before, where he appeared to read someone’s mind, and it got Roger everytime. 

“No, I know where we’re going!” he protested, attempting to preserve his pride. “We’re going to the- uh, the-” he grasped at straws, blurting out the first that came to mind “-park! To the park.”

John’s lips curled in amusement. He nodded in acquiescence and politely said nothing as Roger tripped stepping off the curb. 

The park, a small collection of dull green trees around a large pond populated by rather vicious ducks, was empty when they arrived. The streetlamps were all broken except one right over the water, creating an atmospheric glow in the reflection. Roger thought it looked like the kind of place he’d take to charm a girl he really wanted to take home. And here he was, with John.

(John, who wasn’t a girl but was quiet with long hair and nice legs, who watched him like no else did, who was here in the place of any girl because Roger had realized he’d rather have him.) 

They wandered down to the puddle of light by the water. Soft and romantic were somehow the only words Roger’s idiot brain could come up with as they sat in the cold, wet grass. The water lapped quietly at the shore by their feet. 

He picked at the grass and took a moment to appreciate John’s profile. John’s long lashes fluttered as he gazed off out into the water, making him look otherworldly, more like a painting than anything real. Like one of the fairies from his picture books as a child. Roger traced the slope of his nose, the relaxed flat line of his mouth, the curve of his chin. 

He dropped his head awkwardly when he noticed how long he’d been staring. John remained oblivious. Roger picked at the grass, tearing up the limp blades and raking his nails through the dirt below. All remained quiet- not quite comfortable, but not awkward or frustrating either- for a few moments.

Roger found himself remembering Freddie’s comments. What a tart. Where on earth he’d learned that thing about lube Roger didn’t want to imagine. Freddie had always been knowledgeable about things he maybe oughtn’t be, and Roger was never quite sure how to feel about it. Like the one time at their little stall when a woman had asked Freddie about some vintage lingerie they’d put on sale as a joke. He’d been scarily descriptive in telling her how it fit on the hips, and he hadn’t even been flirting. 

Roger shook his head to dispel the disturbing and yet uncomfortably intriguing image of Freddie in lacy lingerie and felt a familiar gaze land on him. Scrubbing at his jaw, he looked up. His eyes met John’s and his breath caught. Stuck in that mesmerising gaze, pinned down by a new heaviness that’d he’d seen before, but never on John.

John wanted him. (And for some reason, it didn’t shock him as much as it could’ve. Maybe he’d known subconsciously all along. Maybe he’d hoped for it so hard he’d gone numb. He felt a bit numb now, actually. John wanted him. He was allowed to want him back.)

Roger’s chest clenched and loosened at the same time. It felt natural; the way the sun rises and falls everyday. Inevitable.

John’s lips were warm. Roger kissed him and kept his eyes open, unable to break John’s hypnotic gaze. The quiet sound of water faded away and the world narrowed to the puddle of light they sat in.

As simple as that.

(Except not quite. Panic rose like bile in Roger’s throat as large, calloused hands slipped around his hips and he jerked back. John was sprawled onto the grass, propped up by his forearms as he stared at him, pretty eyes wide in terrified concern.

“Fuck, I’m sorry-” Roger gasped out, trying to slow his frantic heart. John didn’t respond right away. He cautiously sat back up, keeping the new foot space between them, which was not what Roger wanted but found himself grateful for anyway. 

“What happened?” He dropped his eyes. Roger inched forward, gut twisting.

“Just- bad memories ‘s all. It’s not your fault, Deaks.” He kept his voice as steady as he could, to convince John and maybe get back to kissing. 

John worried his flushed lip between his teeth and looked back at him. Roger reached his hands out in a peace offering. Their fingers fit together perfectly.

“I’m sorry that happened to you” John murmured. Roger’s gut twisted again, but he couldn’t help but smile at the way John’s brow was furrowed. Hunched over, face framed by a curtain of soft hair, he looked like a cocker spaniel.

“It’s alright.”

“It’s not” John insisted quietly, but his brow smoothed out as Roger leaned forward. Roger watched his eyelashes flutter, and then it was John kissing him. 

Roger felt himself melt. Ever so gently, those talented hands brushed his chest and then slowly slotted under his jacket, along his ribs. The gesture was small and yet Roger’s heart soared. He slid his hands into John’s heavenly soft hair and pressed all the love swelling in his heart through the kiss.

And maybe it was simple, after all. Just them, in their own light world by a cold lake.

Freddie was going to have a fit later.)

**Author's Note:**

> i saw a tweet that said something like "im tired of being horny, i want to be happy" and thought of roger


End file.
